Another Peter Pan Story
by iamhisviolet
Summary: "Of course it's real! Don't you believe in fairies?" "I do! But this is real life!"


Chapter One: Fairytales for All!

Muttering could be heard throughout the school's gymnasium. The students' distaste practically radiate off each other. I could understand that. I don't want to ushered into a book trading convention or what not either. But seeing as though my sister is part of the committee, I'm not given much of a choice.

I fidget with the hem of my shirt, trying to hide behind my hair. I stand beside an old copy of Th Grimm brothers' fairytales. I'm supposed to read it aloud, my sister says. _Aloud_, the thought horrifies me. But, alas, I could never say no to my sister.

"Ugh, look at her," I could hear Natalie Morrison hiss violently to her posse. "I can't believe she's helping here! Well, I suppose I can, considering what a loser she is." My blood boils, but I don't say anything. I keep quiet and stare at the floor. I don't want to pick a fight. _Oh, yes you do_, some wicked part of me giggles. _You want to give her a hard sock in the stomach._ I shove the thought away as students float group by group to different exhibits, some trading books or something.

In the crowd, I see my sister. She is seated in a plastic chair, although she is suited to be seated on a throne. Perhaps the throne should be made with gold, with velvet seats, and encrusted with diamonds. She is reciting Homer, I note. Her soft voice brings me back to the Trojan War. The battles, the heroes. Her soft face so lovely, reminding me of Helen. Her emotions sweep over her face, moving those listening to her. She pauses, catches, my eyes, and winks. Her eyes are a beautiful light evergreen, unlike my dull black ones. I glance at the little group that has surrounded my plastic chair and book.

Surprisingly, Natalie is one of them. She taps her foot impatiently. Her lip gloss covered lips form a frown. "Well? Aren't you going to start? Do you expect to keep us waiting?" Her voice is shrill and has a high pitch. I cringe. She flips her bright blonde hair which is dyed with an even brighter shade of pink streaks and pops her gum. Someone shoots her a look, but she ignores him. Her posse acts the same saying things that support her latest and most annoying argument.

I smile nervously and start reading. My voice is small and quiet at first, but continues louder and louder, "Briar Rose, or as you know her, Sleeping Beauty. Once upon a time, in a land far away, lived a king and queen. They longed for a child, yet could not have one... Then, one day the Queen got pregnant, and gave birth to a healthy baby girl! They named her Rose, and invited everyone in their kingdom to a banquet. They called all the fairies, but they forgot to invite one. This fairy was furious. During the banquet, she came surprising everyone and cursed the child. "When she turns eighteen," the fairy cackled. "She will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die!" The king and queen were horrified, but were not able to do anything. The good fairies said, "We could make her sleep instead, and the curse will be broken by true love's kiss."

"So, the princess grew up beautiful and healthy. Until her eighteenth birthday came. The bad fairy disguised herself as an old lady and led the princess up to a tower. She showed the princess a spinning wheel. Sadly, and suddenly, the princess pricked herself. The evil fairy cackled as she disappeared, thinking the princess had died. The good fairies kept her body safe and shielded the tower with thorns, and kept the whole kingdom in a deep sleep.

"A hundred years passed and a prince from another land heard about the sleeping princess. He traveled to her tower, through the thorns and to her chamber. She was still as beautiful. He kissed her and broke the spell! Everyone in the kingdom was grateful! Soon, the two were wed. And they lived happily ever after."

Most people who has met our family say me and my sister are excellent story tellers. My sister is more of a poet really. I'm the writer. They say, "Oh, you sound like your great-grandmother Wendy!" or "Jane tells stories like that too!" or "Your mother would have been so proud." Seriously though, you heard our great-grandmother tell stories?

I look at the audience after I finish reading. My lips feel dry. They have bewildered faces, some just bored, some slightly amused. I try not to look at anything but my shoes.

Natalie shoots me a snooty look and says, "Why do they get married at the end? You can't just marry someone you've just met!" Her ever so loyal posse nod in agreement. _Sheesh, it's not my story_, I think bitterly.

"She must've fancied him a lot, I suppose," I say softly.

Natalie scoffs, "How ridiculous!" She flips out her compact mirror from her designer handbag, admiring herself then says, "But I don't think she can be the most beautiful, because obviously _I_ am the most gorgeous." Her followers assure her that she is. I silently gag. Luckily for me, she moves on to find other people to irritate.

The next few groups were more quiet and polite. I read; they listen. This routine goes on and on until the program ends, and the students are required to watch a play at the multi-purpose room. I am left with a few other students to clean up. Once that was finished, we were required to go directly and watch the remainder of the play.

I start gathering some plastic chairs, pilling them on top of each other, as my sister approaches me. "I heard you reading," she announces jubilantly. I raise and eyebrow.

"Really, now?" I ask, continuing my work. She nods energetically. Her curls bouncing, eyes shining.

"You were amazing!" she says, although I know she's just saying that. I'm not.

"No," I say. "You're better." I take a broom and start sweeping up the litter that has accumulated on the floor.

My older sister Lorraine has always been special, spectacular and the star. Although no one really said so, it was just implied. She is pretty with a straight nose, full lips, and bright green eyes. Her curly dirty blonde hair is usually in a braid or let down. She has fair rosy skin, in contrast to mine which is bleak and pale. She's older than me and going to Cambridge next fall while I'm still in 6th grade. They say she looks like our mother, which is true. I've seen Father looking fondly at her, remembering Mum.

In comparison to her, I look like a ghost. Black hair and eyes, pale skin. I don't find myself as anything special. I am plain, no talent, no looks, nadda.

Lorraine smiles as she takes a mop. "You're better at writing stories," she says. "I can't write stories."

"You're a poet," I say. "Writing poems are harder than writing stories... and better." She laughs a little. She has a soft laugh, so ladylike.

"Poets write about things that already exist whether in their imagination or not," she says, after a while. "They write about the story, turning into fancy words to rhyme. The writers are the brains. They make the story, the poets turn them into extravagant words." She giggles.

I ponder on her words, sweeping as I do so. We work in silence before she announces, "Alright, done here. I want you to freshen up and change before you head down to the multi-purpose room, 'kay?"

I nod. " 'kay." She smiles as she walks towards the exit.

I change into a denim shorts and green shirt, and pull on my white jacket. I sigh as I splash cold water on my face. I take my hanky and try to wipe my face clean. Satisfied, I walk down the halls to the MPR. I frown as I enter. And I have to clean this up too. I stand on the sides, seeing as there are no seats left. I spot my sister hiding behind the curtains. She's giving cues to the actors on stage. They're putting on The Wizard of Oz.

I find a few familiar faces in the audience. None of them are really important though. The play drags on. Don't get me wrong, it's a magnificent play with proper lighting, background music, props and everything. I'm just not interested at the moment.

Finally, the play ends, the curtain falls, and I have to clean up this mess. Why? Because, as part of the committee of this fund raiser, it's an obligation. A suckish obligation if you ask me. Cleaning lady time.

I walk home with my sister that night. The night is cold and damp, but the stars are bright. My bag feels heavy on my shoulder. I shift a bit. I think my lips are cracked. But my sister? She's skipping down the road, singing the craziest songs.

"I want your love, I don't wanna be friends!" she sings. "You and me could write a bad roma-ance!"

I laugh. "You're going to wake the neighbors up!"

She shakes her head. "I'm a beautiful singer anyway." The rest of our walk home is enjoyable.

Our house is an old Victorian one with wooden floors and heavy furniture. I walk past the door, drop my bag, hang my coat and bid my sister good night. I fly up the stairs two at a time. I know my sister would be looking at the stars out in the yard. Probably with Sam, our golden retriever.

I knock on the heavy oak doors. No one responds. I push them open. I see a lump in the middle of the huge king sized bed. A suit jacket has been discarded earlier on the floor. I seat myself in the on the edge of the bed.

"Dad?" I ask softly. He's home earlier than expected. My father blinks. Once, then twice. His face breaks into a small smile.

"Hey, Amy," he says.

My father is a tall man, with graying black hair and dark eyes. I take after him. They said he was handsome in his youth. I can't imagine that. He buries himself in his work often. He leaves early and comes home late.

"Do you want dinner? Anything?" I ask politely.

He shakes his head. His breath is foul. I notice the bottle of beer on his bedside table. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Go to bed. It's getting late."

I hug him and bid him good night.

I walk across the hall to my room. There's nothing much in it really. I take a warm bath and change into a set red pajama shorts and through on a blue sweater. I sit on my bed and stare out of my window. A bird flies by. No, it's too slow to be a bird. Is that... a pirate ship?


End file.
